


Daybreak

by pepperdot



Category: Original Work
Genre: Canon, Gen, Metahumans, Nonbinary Character, Superheroes, but only in a vaguely adjacent way, damien does get hazard pay but is it worth it, damien loves his big brother, i am once again posting soft content, i think about it often i love him, if you wouldnt spend all your time as a bear if you could you're a liar, madeira deserves good coffee and gets it, mentions of injury, one reluctant napping location at a time, price brothers, she also gets my undying love and devotion because she deserves that too, siobhan is a bear for this one because that's her god given right, t rating is for damien swearing at his brother and also mentions of injury and cybernetics, the brothers remember that technically it is a physical requirement to sleep, the jackeyes, the past is rough but they're figuring it out, victor is the best of us but also honestly terrifying if you think about it, victor loves their little brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperdot/pseuds/pepperdot
Summary: There have been worse mornings.Or, two times the Price brothers crash before they make it home, and one time they just barely make it.
Kudos: 1
Collections: Price Brothers





	Daybreak

1\. _Foxden_

It doesn’t matter how tired he is—Damien hates sleeping at Foxden. He’ll chug an extra mug of coffee and make his jittery way across the city at five in the morning if it means staying out of those dusty side rooms and their sloping ceilings. 

They’re not uncomfortable, they’re made to get you through the night just fine. For all the things that Foxden can’t be, it’s never been anything less than _safe,_ and he knows that as sure as the ink etched to his skin. Logically, sleeping here is fine, that there’s no reason to drag them both halfway across Southside after tonight’s hell mission.

It’s just that particular flavor of dust, the pressing silence. It’s all just a little bit too much like—

“I’m not moving,” Victor says, from where they’re sprawled across the rattiest couch in all of Foxden. It’s more of a groan, muffled and almost lost at the end where the words meld together. There’s a twinge of concern in Damien’s gut, because Victor handled a lot of the brunt work tonight and someone’s going to have to make sure their shoulder isn’t sprained in the morning—later morning, and that makes Damien’s vision blurry—and if anyone deserves to be left the hell alone for a few hours, it’s Victor.

Damien is still sitting mostly upright, which he’s counting as a win. Sure, it was more or less a collapse into the armchair nearest Victor’s couch, but it’s not completely horizontal and that’s what matters. Next he’s going to try and gather up the energy to actually get them both on their feet.

That one’s feeling increasingly out of reach. 

“We should go home,” Damien says, but it’s half-hearted at best. Victor cracks an eye open—or possibly two, it’s impossible to know with half his face hidden by the hair that had slipped free from the band —to give Damien a look. It could be a ‘like hell’ or it could be a ‘for the love of god, please no,’ but either way, the message isn’t lost on their brother.

And then his eyes slide back shut, and Damien sighs. 

Siobhan hasn’t even bothered turning back into someone with opposable thumbs, which only confirms the idea that everyone has a right to be worn out. She’s stretched out on the floor like a third couch, and her eyes had shut the second she dropped her massive head to the ground. She’s breathing in deep, shuddering gusts that blow dust up from between the floorboards, and Damien just watches that for a moment. 

He should make them get up, because traveling anywhere in the morning is a nightmare. He could insist, he knows with a sort of vague certainty. He could say something quiet about long nights in dead silent rooms and ask, quietly, to go back home for the night. And Victor would grumble, but they’d haul themself up and make sure Damien didn’t walk into traffic on the long way home and wouldn’t say another word. But he’s tired, and Victor’s already swallowed by a mountain of unruly hair and fast asleep, and Damien’s eyes are drooping and the chair is comfortable—

And the edges of the room aren’t really so deadly silent, not when there’s a brother and a bear filling everything with the sound of slow, steady breaths. 

He takes one look at Victor, shoulders hunched up high against the couch and ribs expanding and falling in rhythm. There’s no stutter to the breaths, and that more than anything makes Damien forget how exactly to insist that they should go home after all. 

There’s a beat, and then he pulls the slightly crumpled notebook from his inner pocket. Just for an hour or two, he tells himself, and then he’ll wake Victor up and drag both of them home. Maybe, if he’s feeling nice, he’ll make a cup of coffee to shove into their hands on the way. 

In the meantime, even if he can’t bring himself to sleep under Foxden’s heavy ceilings, he can at least let some of the tension out of his shoulders. 

The Price brothers are sprawled across about a third of the available furniture in one of Foxden’s many burrows. There’s some scuffling in the doorway, four eyes peering in, air heavy with mischief. It’s almost five in the morning but there’s really no such thing as peace in Foxden. There’s an inhale instead, a foot edging over the threshold— 

It freezes immediately when a great dark head lifts from the floor and pins two yellow eyes to the owner. Siobhan doesn’t growl, just stares hard until the foot—and the rest of the body attached—edges right back into the hallway and disappears with a flurry of whispers. 

Damien glances at her curiously, then over his shoulder. There’s nothing there, and by the time he looks to Siobhan again she’s curling up with a deep _whuff_ of contentment. Her head thunks right back to the ground, and for all intents and purposes she might have never moved. 

Damien shakes his head at her, but only glances over to make sure Victor’s still asleep. They are, of course, and Damien rolls his eyes and feels a pang of nostalgia—warm and without barbs, and it’s been so long since he could say that in Foxden that he forgets to blink for a moment—and swallows before turning back to his notepad.

And between Siobhan’s occasionally watchful gaze and the quiet scribble of Damien’s pen, he figures that there have been worse mornings. 

2\. _Workshop_

“I’m charging you an overnight rate,” she says, sharp and with a flash of teeth in a grin. Victor just groans, lets his head thunk back against the cool metal. 

“You can’t charge me if I’m not staying overnight,” they say, “It’s barely even _night_ anymore.” They’re not looking at what Madeira’s doing to their forearm, but they can feel the familiar click- _clink_ all the same. It’s like a constant buzzing, just on the wrong side of uncomfortable even with the numbing, but they’re used to it by now. 

Honestly, he’s almost grateful for the edge digging like a blunt knife at his temples. It means there’s no way they’ll be able to drift off, and then they really would be paying the overnight rate.

“Tell it to that one,” Madeira jerks her chin in Damien’s direction, her eyes never leaving the project at hand. And that’s why Victor’s grateful that sleep is being firmly staved off, because there’s no way Damien’s going to wake up on his own before it’s time to leave. 

Victor can’t help but sigh. 

“Fine,” he says begrudgingly, “Overnight rate. But it’s a ripoff and I’m not getting you coffee next time I’m uptown.”

Madeira just laughs, because they both know Victor’s full of it, and ducks back down to work. They build up the energy to scowl at her, but there’s something a little loose in their chest and they can’t make the edges stick. Instead their eyes flick back to the sight of Damien sitting there, head resting against the wall and shoulders hunched in on each other. He’s so completely motionless, still in his _I’m-a-normal-person-paid-minimum-wage-for-tutoring-don’t-mind-me_ clothes, and everything about him screams that he sprinted halfway across the city as soon as Victor forced their cramping fingers to tap the message out. 

Madeira had glared at him the whole while, but hadn’t stopped it. Presumably because it wasn’t actually serious, but either way it probably means she does deserve that overnight rate. Victor bites back another sigh, winces when something pinches near their thumb. He doesn’t look down though, just trusts Madeira to handle it. She seems to prefer it that way, left to fix the problem and tinker on in peace. 

There’s no audible clock in the workshop, so it’s just Madeira’s tools cutting through the silence. It’s hard to tell how long they’re sitting there, staring at the ceiling and listening to themself breathe, but eventually Madeira exhales and pulls away properly. Victor’s sitting up and flexes his wrists, reflexively checking the enhancements over. They’re sore, but the plates are pristine and the vents are thankfully back to normal. By the time they’re done examining the changes—because it always feels like something is tweaked just a little, with Madeira—she’s made it across the shop and back, and is pressing a cup of coffee into their hand. There’s a matching one in her own, already almost empty.

“You can let him sleep, if you want to talk upgrades in the meantime,” is all she says, and crosses the room again to start brewing a fresh pot. It takes a second for the words to catch up through the haze of _tired-wired-definitely-not-sleeping-yet,_ but Victor blinks twice and manages to figure it out.

“We should head out soon,” he says automatically, but his eyes go to Damien. Their brother is still asleep, breathing steady and slow in Madeira’s workshop like there’s always been space for him there. And for a second, for a split second, Victor imagines what if would have been like if—

They get to their feet with a groan, downing half the coffee in a single swallow, and cross over to Madeira’s smallest desk. She already has his schematics up, and she’s talking almost immediately. 

Victor listens, and drinks more of her decent coffee—of course it’s decent, they buy the good kind in bulk whenever she’s been particularly patient with damage—and comments when appropriate. It feels familiar, just another of a hundred nights that have ended like this. 

But every once in a while, Victor will glance over his shoulder to make sure his brother is still sleeping in the corner. There’s a lot of feelings there still, a lot that they’re not sure they want to examine just yet. For now though, for today—

There have been worse mornings. 

3\. _Rooftop_

They’re both tired. Damien’s head feels about eight times too heavy with the mask still tangled in his hair, and Victor keeps rolling their shoulders with a grimace. The way home had felt like walking through honey, and Victor’s never been more grateful for his “there’s a car about two seconds away from your face Damien I _swear to God”_ sixth sense because there’s no way they would’ve made it back otherwise. They keep the thought to themself, though, because they’re a good brother. 

The two of them take a break at the base of the fire escape, leaning against those grimy alley walls. Damien makes a face where he pulls his hand away and sees the grit sticking there. He really doesn’t want to know what their clothes look like, but he already feels the weight of scrubbing his cloak clean again. Nobody tells you that the worst part of criminal activity is the insane amount of hand-wash laundry required.

Well, not the worst. But it’s up there, he’s pretty sure. 

Taking the long way home is another, but that’s equally necessary. It’s safer this way, climbing up fire escapes two blocks away and ducking over rooftops—hopping down to their windows rather than just walking straight up to announce their little corner of the city. They’re both good at this now, the winding routes home, and aren’t sure just yet if they find that reassuring. 

It’s worth it, obviously, in exchange for some peaceful sleep.

But every once in a while, Damien really wishes they could just walk in the front door and take the rickety elevator instead. 

Victor gathers the energy to haul themself off the wall first, though they don’t look happy about it. He’s used to long nights and the iron burn up his veins, but that doesn’t mean he likes it. It only gets worse when they haul themself up the fire escape, one rung after the other, the burn stretching all the way down their spine. They pause at the landing to lean over the rail.

Damien is still leaning against the wall, head ducked low and shoulders slumped. There’s a twinge of worry in Victor’s stomach then, but they’d checked with him—twice—and the worst thing Damien’s dealing with tonight is bruises and maybe a sprain. They’re both in one piece, but he doesn’t have time to feel relieved yet. 

“Come on,” Victor calls over the edge, just the right edge of not-too-loud. “Don’t pass out, there’s definitely something dead on the floor.” 

Damien snorts despite himself, and it’s only that bullheadedness that makes him reluctantly push off the wall. 

“I’m not passing out anywhere,” he tells Victor, and ignores the hoarseness in his throat. He should know by now how much _Speech_ it takes to tear into his lungs, but the mission had dragged on and on and at some point it just feels worth it.

Victor says something sharp back, amused and acidic, and Damien just flips them off. There’s a burn all the way from his wrist to his ribs as he pulls himself up onto the fire escape, and he groans as he hauls himself up. He can feel Victor’s eyes on him, calculating and concerned, but Victor just rolls his eyes when Damien looks over accusingly. 

“Shut up, you look terrible too,” Damien grumbles, and starts up the stairs. Victor’s eyebrows go up, and they shoulder by Damien to head up faster. They’re up another flight and grinning through the bars before Damien catches his balance fully.

“I’m getting the shower first at this rate,” Victor tells him smugly, and Damien scowls up.

“Oh, no the fuck you’re not—”

And it’s just enough to make Damien sprint up the fire escape after Victor, who laughs and leaps over to the opposite roof like it’s nothing. Damien follows, and he isn’t wobbling that terribly, but Victor reaches out to grab a fistful of the cape at his shoulder anyway.

“You’re the worst,” Damien complains, and Victor is all too happy to mess Damien’s hair up for that.

“I’ll drop you off the roof, just watch,” Victor threatens, and Damien shoves him. And even though they were racing a moment ago, the rusted corner of the fire escape must have snagged the rest of that energy because they walk the rest of the way across the roof. Victor shoulders Damien again, maybe to keep him awake and maybe because they can. Damien almost topples over and uses elbows the next time he comes back, and from there it gets a little rougher, but they make it to the edge peacefully. 

The edge and the fire escape are a white flag, and Victor lets Damien jump down first. It’s not rusty anymore, because they both scrubbed it—it was an argument, because of course it was, and they did a good job maybe as a result—and the plants that are carefully arranged around the edges make it a little bit more for them. They grow a little more every time Victor visits, and only really flourish when they’re here, but Damien really doesn’t feel like admitting that. 

Victor’s boot nudges against one of the pots, and it’s like all the winds rushes out of the brothers at once. Victor gives in and sits first, lets a foot dangle into open air between the bars. Damien doesn’t say a word, just collapses next to them. The metal is cold under their fingertips.

There’s not much of the city to see here, just the sprawling rooftops and the distant glint of lights over the river. Light is creeping over the streets to the east, hesitant like it expects to be sent right back away. But it persists and comes crawling over the rooftops anyway.

They stay there for a moment, maybe because the last three feet through a window are the hardest, or maybe because the air up here tastes less like concrete and more like sneaking out on school nights. Breaking out or Damien quietly leaving the window unlocked so Victor could come in without a thirty minute interrogation. 

“Wait, you were leaving it unlocked on purpose?” Victor asks, outraged and something like warm all at once, and Damien has to assume he said that last bit out loud. He laughs, because there’s something intrinsically funny about anything you do when you’re fourteen and worried about your older brother getting grounded, and Victor’s elbow isn’t actually sharp when it digs into his ribs. There’s something sharp under the laughter, painful memories and a void that still doesn’t feel full. But just today, just like this, it feels alright to let slide by quietly.

It would be easy to make it the last four feet through the window, but Damien’s eyelids are so heavy, and there’s something warm and familiar aching in his chest. Or maybe it’s someone warm and familiar against his shoulder, leaning and sturdy back at him. 

Victor suspects they should head back in, because they’re still wearing their goggles and Damien’s still covered in stupid feathers. They should go in and make breakfast and go the hell to bed, in that order or otherwise. But the morning air is clean and quiet, only the ever-present noise of the city drifting up them here, and they’ve cleaned this fire escape and watered these plants and made it back to both with their brother intact this time. 

And so they let the exhaustion of coming home wash over them, decide to make Damien cook when they eventually make it inside, and don’t try to force their eyes back open. The brothers stay like that, leaning against one another, and the sun continues to slowly spread red-orange-violet across the sky.

And, generally, as far as mornings go—

It’s a good one.

**Author's Note:**

> is it clear enough that i simp for Madeira on a deep existential level ?? 
> 
> listen. i love these brothers. their lives are so hard but they love each other and sometimes they get to be happy alright that's all i just want them to get some sleep for once . yes i did write this when i had like three essays due why do you ask
> 
> Also this piece was inspired by some of digitalScribbler's amazing art a while back, so make sure to check out their works! Madeira and Victor are both her characters, and we've got plenty of adventures with them (and the rest of the ensemble!) in our collections :)) come hang out with our cool criminals! only two of them bite


End file.
